The Hellfire Series: Dance With The Devil
Warnings: explicit content. One incidence of derogatory language about a female.
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to the characters of the Master and Margarita, I'm just playing around. All characters, barring OCs, belong to Mikhail Bulgakov.
Author's Note: I am writing this as an AU continuation of the Russian musical version, not the novel, so be warned if some things deviate from Bulgakov's writing.
'I feel your fingers, cold on my shoulder.
Your chilling touch as it runs down my spine.
Watching your eyes as they invade my soul,
Forbidden pleasures,
I'm afraid to make mine.'
- 'Dangerous Game' Jekyll and Hyde
Consciousness returned in uneasy spurts, as Margarita slowly regained awareness. She could feel the softness of cushions supporting her head and back, while a warm hand caressed her tangled hair gently. She could feel the warmth of a fire nearby, and heard the creak of a floorboard somewhere behind her. For a moment, all she did was focus on the hand in her dishevelled curls and the warmth and comfort it elicited in her, spreading through her veins like a balm. She refused to let all that happened before her collapse impede on her peace; she knew it couldn't last long.
A familiar voice sounded. "She stirs, Messire." Behemoth.
The hand left her hair and the floorboard creaked once more, as she sensed the hand's owner move away from her. She remembered the tarnished armour and gleaming inhuman eyes before her collapse, and the feeling of complete safety as his name had slipped from her lips. He was here.
But why?
Putting such questions from her mind for the moment, Margarita let her eyes flutter open, wincing slightly as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of her surroundings. She saw she was lying in the downstairs parlour, where they had once entertained guests of an evening and one of the few rooms to escape her earlier fury, and the curtains were closed, blocking out that infernal, perpetual sunlight. She both feared and hoped desperately to meet his gaze as she looked around, but she could not see him. Her eyes met those of Behemoth's, with his furred visage and sly feline eyes.
"B-Behemoth?" she whispered, her hoarse voice catching on the syllables slightly. Her throat was parched. "What are you doing here? Why are you a cat again?"
"Well met, Queen Margot!" Behemoth exclaimed genially, but he seemed nervous. "You must still be tired, rest awhile before we talk. Perhaps a drink, for your voice sounds-"
"Behemoth," Margarita murmured insistently, trying to push herself up on her elbows futilely.
And then another voice spoke, deep, powerful and seductive, sending uncontrollable shivers down Margarita's spine. "Behemoth has been returned to his feline form as punishment." Margarita heard more footsteps, then a figure rounded the corner of the chaise she was laid on, clad and cloaked in armour and leather, imposing and sinfully, angelically handsome, as he proffered a small glass of vodka.
Messire.
"What punishment?" she asked, eyes darting between the two creatures even as she took the proffered glass. Downing it, she felt instantly better, more alert as the huskiness of her voice was alleviated and her limbs felt less heavy. Behemoth fidgeted but did not reply to Margarita's question, uncharacteristically reticent as he darted a look towards his master. Revelation struck, and Margarita sighed. "You know about Behemoth's visit."
"Behemoth, leave us," her rescuer commanded, and the demon withdrew but not without a worried glance at Margarita. If a demon of all creatures was worried for her…Margarita quelled the shiver, but relished it as she sat upright and faced him. "He disobeyed me. A few more centuries as a cat are the least of his worries."
"What are you doing here?" Margarita asked, not caring for his evasions at that moment. She trod on dangerous ground but she no longer cared. With a thrill, she realised she no longer feared him as she once did.
Messire glanced at her narrowly, before turning to stare into the flames of the hearth, his strong back an impenetrable barrier. "Where is your lover?" he demanded glibly. "Behemoth told me of your…discontent. Your ingratitude amazes me."
Pricked, Margarita bristled. "He left me," she replied bleakly, as he scoffed.
"Impossible. You are dead. Your souls can never leave this place-" he retorted scornfully, but Margarita interjected forcefully as she stood from her seat.
"Matthew the Levite took him away," she said. He turned to face her, and she sensed with shock, that he was surprised and unsettled by her confession. "He said that God had some higher purpose for him and a chance to earn his place in the light."
"Then why are you not with him?" Messire asked, the scorn dissipating as quickly as it came. "I heard your cry; I did not think it possible until Behemoth-"
"Matthew said I could not join him," Margarita explained. It was the bare truth and she prayed he wouldn't pry further but his eyes narrowed. He knew she was being evasive.
"Margarita Nikolayevna, why are you not with your lover in the light of His service?" Messire asked again, contempt pricking his tone for a moment when he referred to his ancient enemy.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she could not turn away from him. He held her spellbound. Messire reached out a hand to her face, tucking back a loose curl, and the words tore themselves free from her throat.
"Matthew said I was tainted, unworthy, that my fate lay elsewhere. And…he…didn't want me with him anymore," she choked out, trembling as the pain and the rage returned but there could be no outlet this time. Messire's hand snapped back as if burned by her skin, and he clenched it into a fist as he lowered it to his side.
"He abandoned you," he stated, coolly, clarifying the situation. Margarita did not appreciate it. Freed from his spell, she turned away violently, clutching her arms tightly as she tried to retain some dignity. She fully expected his scorn and pleasure at her torment, as her dream turned to nightmare.
"Does that please you?" she asked, dreading the answer.
"It should. Once, it would have pleased me greatly," he replied honestly, and his words pricked deep. "Now, it…pains me to see you thus."
"I knew it was coming, deep down, I think," Margarita whispered, her hands clenching around her arms to stop herself from doing what she yearned to, and reach for him. "We had both changed beyond repair. His writing, his vocation returned to him but I…I grew restless and discontent. I could no longer play the blindly adoring acolyte."
"That does not surprise me," Messire replied, as she turned around at that. "You yearned for him but you were not made for him. Yours was the passion of the acolyte, as you said, and now…you have tasted the bitterness of disillusion."
Margarita searched that handsome visage intently. His words stung, as she was sure he meant them to, but they were achingly true. What was more, she sensed he spoke from experience, and that was true too, if her memory of scripture and myth rang sound. They were two disillusioned creatures, cast out into darkness and abandoned by those they had loved.
"And what now?" she asked, in a whisper. Her heart pounded at the look in his, but his piercing eyes were quickly shuttered and cold once more.
"And what? It was your wish," he reminded her coldly. "Anything else is your affair."
Margarita's heart quailed, but what had she expected? Tenderness? After her rejection? "Yes, it is," she admitted. "No matter how bitterly I regret it now. Well, you can leave now. Whatever morbid curiosity drove you here, it must be assuaged by now. Leave me to my hell!" she turned away at that, bitterness swelling to anger once more.
"You do not command me, Margarita Nikolayevna," came the harsh, commanding shout and Margarita was frozen in her tracks, unable to move, as she felt him move closer until his hot breath brushed the nape of her neck and his armoured chest grazed her back. Despite herself, exhilaration at baiting the beast piercing the anger, Margarita could not entirely repress a shudder at his proximity. She could sense his rage at her arrogance, like a prowling beast beneath the veneer of cultured refinement, but it was tempered by a wound, a wound she had dealt him.
Instinctively, she leaned back into his chest, feeling again the strength and power of his body against hers. She was truly shameless, truly all that Matthew the Levite had named her, then, if she felt such yearning even as she mourned the death of her previous affair.
"Forgive me, messire," she breathed, with difficulty. "I just do not understand why you still linger."
"Forgiveness is not in my nature to give," he growled against her curls, but she could feel his anger was assuaged slightly. She felt him nuzzle her curls, mouth drifting over the tumbled curls until he caressed the soft skin behind her ear. She shuddered violently as he breathed her name against her skin. "Margarita…"
"One thing I ask, messire," Margarita gasped. "One last wish, before I face my fate alone."
"Margarita…" this time, her name was said warningly, and she could feel his anger rising again at her presumption. Hadn't she demanded enough of him?
"Dance with me, one last time," she continued, before he could speak again. "Dance with me as we did at the ball. Let us part with that one memory unspoiled at least."
He looked at her then, his anger vanishing in a moment, his gaze considering. She felt his nod of acquiescence even as she felt the force holding her motionless dissipate. Shaking, she stepped away from him and towards the small gramophone in one corner of the room. Beside it, a cabinet held every record ever made and as Margarita opened it and reached in, the perfect record came to hand just as she knew it would, as it always had before when she desired music to fill the silence of the house. As she placed the disk on the plate, she reflected on the continuing lack of fear she felt in his presence. The fear that had made her flee from his passion was gone.
Too late.
The bitter thought made Margarita want to curl into a ball and weep, but she would not. Not until he left her once more. Then she would mourn once more.
As the first strains of a tango filtered across the room, she took a deep breath as she felt his strength reach for her. She turned and stepped into his arms without hesitation this time, gratified by the frustration and the surprise in his eyes as he took her waist in one hand, and her hand in the other.
As one, they moved backwards, Margarita twisted and twining through the rhythms of the dance in Messire's powerful hold. With a flourish, he spun her out and then back into him again, holding her body close to his. Margarita shivered but said nothing, her gaze fixed on the lips so close to her own. Messire was equally silent, as he jerked her into hold again and stepped into her.
Margarita let him lead her around the parlour, effortlessly following his lead. It was no trial under his easy, skilled hold and she just enjoyed the flow of the dance they led, the feel of his powerful muscles under her hands, his thighs moving irresistibly between hers, pushing her back, his hands lifting her into the air as if she was weightless, and she felt beautiful and powerful before the hellish flames in his gaze.
He pushed her back into a violent dip, then back into his arms as she performed a volcada, her body pressed firmly into his. He gently pressed her back upright, then swept her into a series of pivots that took her breath away. As his hand settled heavy and possessive on her lower back, his hot breath against her ear, Margarita wondered: who was seducing who?
Finally, he broke the speechless communion between them with a question: "Why did you run from me, Margarita?"
Thrown, Margarita almost missed a step but he was there, dipping her back over his leg as if he had never spoken. She considered her answer, knowing she would not get away with saying nothing, and decided to be truthful. He would accept nothing less.
"Because I feared you," she breathed, as he jerked her upright and tightly against his body. He towered over her, the firelight dying his silver hair almost to ochre as a droplet of sweat trickled down Margarita's back beneath her blouse. "Your power, your…desire."
He hissed in a breath at that, as if expecting her answer, but Margarita was not finished. She spun a half-turn to face away from him, relishing the strength in his embrace as he held her in his arms, relishing the fact he could not resist the passion growing between them any more than she could. "But there was more. I feared myself. You offered me forbidden knowledge and power, you offered yourself to me freely and I…after losing…him, after hoping and praying and searching for so long, how could I have abandoned him when I had the power to save him? How could I forgo the chance to free him? How could I let myself feel so strong and beautiful and desirable in your arms while he languished in an asylum? I wanted you, so desperately, I wanted it all, but I could choose nothing else…"
He chuckled darkly, and the sound sent shivers down her back. His grip tightened on her, and she trembled as she felt a ghostly kiss against her neck. Abruptly, she was turned to face him and then spun away again, as her body cried out at the loss. His hand dropped hers, and she stopped, unsettled by the way he looked at her after her confession. Her chest heaved, and her heart pounded an insane staccato against her breastbone. Every instinct bade her throw herself into his arms and on his mercy, as the Master had abandoned her forever and there was nothing holding her back now, but she paused.
"Never in all the millennia passed, has any woman so challenged and defeated me thus," he finally spoke, in a harsh bark that made Margarita shudder. It was a tone of bitter defeat and resignation, and she yearned to change that. "Even now you torture me, witch."
Certain in what she must do, Margarita summoned her courage and strode across the room to him. The music had long played its last notes, but neither had cared, lost in their own little world where nothing existed but for them. Margarita didn't care now, as she leapt the short distance into his arms, pressing her thigh against his hip and locking her arms around his neck, as his arms instinctively rose to cradle and support her against him. There was shock in his eyes at her audacity, as well as rising lust as his gaze dropped to her mouth. Margarita wasted no more time, and accomplished what she'd yearned for since she first set eyes on him.
She kissed him.
She set her lips to his hard, sensual ones and gasped at the heat of them. Immediately, his grip became crushing as he held her to him, his own lips responding to the passion in hers. She nipped and teased at his lips, begging entrance, as she speared her fingers through his silver-white hair. She could feel the burgeoning hardness of his body against her core, and struggled not to moan at the exquisite sensation. Finally he let her in, but not to submit to her kiss. Margarita shuddered as he took control of their embrace, his tongue surging into her mouth with a devastating sensuality that brought tears to her eyes and made her gasp. She pulled him closer, desperate to feel more and experience more, the anger and the pain fading to a bearable throb at his passion, as his hand left her waist to grip her curls. Without conscious thought, her hips rocked against his and he groaned into their kiss.
Abruptly he broke from her mouth. Margarita whimpered and tried to pull him back, but he pressed a long line of hot, hungry kisses down her neck, across the exposed skin of her collarbone and sternum. Margarita spread her fingers through sylvan silken hair and gripped tightly, her eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. He dropped to his knees before her, gathering her close as if fearing she would disappear if he did not. Margarita sought to ease any anxiety on that score, as he pressed torturing kisses to her stomach through her blouse, flimsy and ineffectual as air for disguising or numbing the heat and passion of his caresses.
Eventually, she became aware of words being growled desperately into the soft flesh of her abdomen. "Reject me, run from me, Margarita or I will not stop…"
With an effort of will, Margarita tilted his head back to meet her gaze firmly. "I won't, not this time," she whispered. She felt as if she stood on a precipice now, with only one way left open to her. She bent her head and kissed him fiercely, as any minute uncertainty left his body entirely, and he grew fierce in his hunger.
He rose to his feet, lifting her off her own and into his arms, as he took two steps and deposited her on the cushions of the chaise. To her shock, Margarita felt her clothes disappear, the softness of the velvet upholstery beneath her sensuously abrading her skin, as she shifted underneath his hungry gaze. He was still clothed in his armour and long robe, but she felt vulnerable and strange to be stared at so fervently. Sex with her husband had been a duty, a chore despite his handsomeness and gentle nature. With the Master, it had been gentle and tender, a reflection of their love for one another but always brief and Margarita had never felt the desperate rush of heat that she felt under Messire's gaze. To her relief, and delight, as he bent to come over her and kiss her again, his own raiment disappeared as well, leaving his bare skin to press against hers deliciously. His arms held her tightly to him as their lips met and clung, while her hands roamed his strong back.
His body was strong and hairless, perfectly formed in every way, but for two long abrasions Margarita felt as she drifted her hands down his back. Before she could do more than frown through the haze of desire that had settled over her perceptions, Messire broke their kiss to nuzzle her cheek, before pressing a long trail of heated kisses down her neck. She arched beneath him, her blood throbbing as it pounded through her veins, her breasts swollen and aching for his touch. His hands glided over her skin, cupping them and caressing possessively. Margarita moaned, her entire body lifting in desperate need of his. She felt his amused chuckle against her skin, as his proud head dipped from her neck and down, down to her breast where he tortured the rigid peak of her breast with his mouth.
In an ever-growing state of bliss, Margarita could only cling to him, her hands buried in his hair, as he nipped and supped at her flesh, lazily devouring every inch. Seemingly satisfied with the now painfully sensitive state he had left her breasts in, he continued to press fervid kisses down her torso, lingering over her stomach and abdomen. She arched at the first touch among the thatch of brown curls at the apex of her thighs, as he parted them firmly and pressed his mouth between. She gasped and lifted, her hips beckoning him onward, desperate for more.
She supposed it was only fitting really, in a dizzy, giddy contemplation as her lover now took his due between her thighs, that the being reputed to be the great seducer would be so accomplished a lover. Her body didn't feel quite real, strung out on a knife edge as she waited impatiently to tumble over. But he did not let her, always pulling her back with gentle, teasing nips along the soft flesh of her thighs just as she went to take the leap, despite her increasingly desperate entreaties to give her what she needed. Contemplation and conscious thought disappeared, her capacity for them temporarily suspended, replaced only by the visceral, animal urge to find release and take more.
Every sensation felt heightened: the rasp of velvet against her back as she shifted and arched against his mouth, the softness of his hair under her fingers, the burning heat of his shoulders where her calves lay draped over his back. The rasping quality of her own voice as she cried out in frustrated entreaty, desperate for some release as her own skin felt ready to burst from her bones, the steely hands holding her thighs to the cushions, and the thud of her heartbeat as it raced ever faster; she would die if he did not grant her release soon.
"Is this your revenge, Messire?" she gasped. "Your vengeance for my rejection?"
She felt his amused chuckle against her, sending shockwaves of sensation through her nerves as she arched and writhed. "Perhaps you fear to fail at the test?" she tried again, feeling him still between her legs. "Perhaps you are more prone to human fallibilities than you care to know?"
He left her only to rear over her, pinning her down and stealing her breath with a hard kiss. Margarita only laughed as he finally deigned to allow her breath, and stated, "That pricked pride, even yours. It is good to know that even you can fall prey to that."
"You tread on weak ground, Margarita," he growled, pressing his body to hers. "Beware."
The press of his burning skin on hers was maddening. "You know no justice!" Margarita retorted, digging her nails into the flesh of his back.
"Do I not?" he growled threateningly, as her nails grazed the abrasions on his back. "Do you believe you deserve it?"
"I think you have forgotten the meaning of that word," Margarita panted, staring up at him defiantly. She could feel him, hot and hard, between her legs but not close enough, not inside her yet. She wanted him, she needed him inside her. "All creatures deserve justice."
She felt his lips on her throat, as she arched and moaned, twining her legs around his waist. Messire's breath hissed in his turn at the closer proximity of their bodies, as his hips rocked into hers. "Even that woman you begged pardon for? Who murdered her newborn child, an innocent with no sin-" he growled against her throat, as his hand caressed down her thigh, curving over the tense, quivering muscle.
"Especially her!" Margarita groaned, eyes shut tight as she clutched Messire's back, enjoying the new sensation he was gifting her, as their slick bodies slid against each other. "She had paid her penance, with so many years of being reminded of her crime and the way she executed it. But what of her justice? What of the café owner who used and then abandoned her? What justice has been done to him?"
"None, while he was alive," her lover admitted huskily. "Plenty, now he enjoys the pleasures of my domain."
This philosophical debate was taxing Margarita too much in her heightened state. She reached up and pulled his mouth back to hers, feeling pleasure mix with undeniable satisfaction at his admission nonetheless. "Messire! Messire!" she gasped, breaking from their kiss. "Must I beg?"
"You are too proud to beg, my Margot," he chuckled, his words shivering over her open lips as she gasped for breath, her limbs trembling even as she clung to him. "It would demean one so strong, Margarita Nikolayevna. Never beg anything of me."
"Then what are you waiting for? Is this some new torture to punish me for-" Margarita demanded, her voice weak but her fury rising with her passion. He interrupted her growing tirade with another kiss, pressing her back to the cushions of the chaise even as his hips shifted between her thighs. Margarita gasped into his mouth as she felt him fill her, thrusting easily inside as her aroused, wet body greedily took him in. He was hard, thick and hot, as scalding as a brand inside her, filling every inch of her so completely, so well that Margarita wondered how she had ever endured the attentions of mortal men before.
Unlike her dream, it did not hurt to feel her soul so wantonly and fiercely stripped from her, or so it felt to Margarita. Surely it should have felt so? Surely no such sin as she now committed could feel so right, so truly soul-felt and free of shame and guilt as this? The servants of God, and even her own once-lover, would now look upon her as the whore of Satan, but Margarita could feel nothing within her to rue it.
Instead, she'd never felt more powerful, more beautiful, than lying beneath him as he claimed her soul.
After his earlier attentions, release came quickly to her but there seemed to be no such reprieve for him. Margarita gazed up at him, dazed and delirious, her body feeling possessed, as if it no longer belonged to her entirely, but that only empowered her. A smug grin lit her lover's seraphic features. "I am not one of your weakling mortals," he said by way of clarification, as Margarita tightened the grip of her thighs around his hips.
"Is that so? Then prove it," she gasped against his lips, determined by her own feminine pride to wipe that insufferable smirk off his face. She pushed with all her strength, pressing him down onto his back and sinking back onto him with a sigh. Amused shock glinted in his eyes, that had begun to take on a darker, blacker look in the golden eye, turning that spark to burning ochre, while his other eye had never looked blacker. But there was life in that darkness, where before it had been cold and motionless, and it looked upon Margarita now with rampant hunger.
From this angle, Margarita had better leverage with which to reciprocate his attentions, leaning in to kiss him heatedly as his arms tightened in a vice around her waist and back. Despite the growing sensitivity of her body, hovering on the knife edge between pleasure and pain, she rocked her hips gently into his, mimicking the thrust of her tongue as she met and played with his own. She rose up and down his slick shaft, as she felt him gather her unruly curls at her nape and fist it in his hand. He pulled, not suddenly and with force meant to hurt, but with an inexorable gentleness Margarita could not resist. She arched her neck and back, shuddering with pleasure as the shift in her position sent judders of sensation through her nerves. She sensed his approval too, as his mouth traced haphazardly down her throat, before ducking down to recapture her breast. Margarita whimpered at the hot wetness that glided over the taut peak of her breast, but was determined not to give and submit with good grace. She would see him undone yet, mighty, inhuman creature though he might be.
She released his hair and back, leaning her full weight on her hands as she reached them back to clasp around his thighs, arching her spine and pressing her breasts fully into him, ready for his pleasure. The position allowed her leverage to more fiercely drive her hips into him, rocking back and forth as he growled against her swollen flesh, his hold on her waist tightening but unable to muster the strength to stop her. Margarita, delighted with her newfound power, experimented wantonly, deriving pleasure from the ever more desperate groans and growls that escaped her lover's throat. Despite his great power and origin, not even he was above the very sensations that brought so many into his power, and she had been the one to accomplish that, to render him desperate and needy for her touch.
For her part, the heat under her skin was growing apace once more but to her wonder, she felt no fatigue. Her energy was inexhaustible as she writhed atop him, intent on driving him wild, her hands clamped hard around the tense muscles of his thighs.
Abruptly she stopped, seated fully atop him, her inner muscles tightening torturously as he growled against her breasts. He raised his head from her to attempt a weary, arrogant look at her but Margarita was only intrigued by the feral intensity she could see brewing in his inhuman eyes. That hunger in his great black eye was only growing, his other eye now burning like liquid fire. She was undermining his control and she felt no fear at the prospect, as any other woman might.
No doubt seeing her intentions written in her features, grim determination and devilish teasing gleaming in her passion glazed eyes, Messire suddenly jerked her upright until their noses brushed and she was once more cradled in his arms. "Beware, Margarita Nikolayevna," he said warningly, his voice reduced to a mere growl in his throat. "You don't know what you are about."
"Don't I?" Margarita replied challengingly. With a frustrated snarl, he shoved her from his lap and onto her back, her head nearly dangling off the end of the chaise. Before she could catch her breath from the rudely sudden change in position, he was back atop her again, sinking into her with a hard thrust that made her shiver and tremble beneath him. His breath was hot against the curve of her jaw as Margarita finally submitted to the plea in her lover's inhuman eyes and just let herself go, no longer thinking, no longer speaking but to voice her passion as it rose over and over again, like a great wave in a stormy sea. But if she was the sea, he was the hurricane, irresistible and overpowering, and Margarita had no wish to stand against him.
The warmth of the fire played over her face as a hand gently stroked her ruffled curls. Margarita slowly awakened, her head pillowed by rocky muscle covered by scarlet velvet. She felt utterly at peace, content and sated, although the fire still simmered under her skin, just waiting for the spark to feed it into an inferno once more.
With one hand she massaged the knee she had caressed once before, marvelling over the strength she could feel even within his sinews as she trailed her fingertips over the curve.
They had made love for hours, as the unnatural sun outside had set and now night reigned. The fire was crackling merrily as she watched it, hypnotised by the dancing flames.
Her lover had fallen into a pensive mood since they had finally stopped, and Margarita could feel it starting to infect her, poisoning her peace. She knew what was coming but did not want to believe it; to hear what she knew must come.
"I can't take you with me," he sighed, somewhere above and behind her, and Margarita shut her eyes to the flames, as if to shield herself from the pain that bloomed and spread through her body at his blunt, cool statement.
"Why not?" she asked, trying hard to keep her voice as steady and cold as his. He sighed again, and Margarita moved, sitting upright and shifting sideways. It hurt to leave him but it hurt even more to remain after what he had said. So she was to be abandoned again? Fury once more began to fester in her soul but she kept it at bay, too heartsick to rail anymore.
Messire stood from the chaise, hands clasping one another tightly behind his back as he stared into the flames, untouchable and implacable. Margarita longed to shake him, to move him but despite his own words, she knew she had not that power. Not him, an ancient, all but omnipotent being.
"The departure of your lover troubles me," he finally began to explain, still refusing to look at her. "Your words about the restlessness you both felt, the Levite's words…something is coming and I see clearly now."
"See what? Nothing is clear to me. What do you see in his departure that I cannot?" Margarita frowned as she opened her eyes. But not to look at him, just to stare into the flames, the edge of his scarlet velvet robe bordering the very edge of her sight. Just enough to know he was still there, with her.
"You said it yourself," he continued. "That feeling that you no longer belonged together, that restlessness you both felt. The Levite's word that you could not join your lover, that your fate lies elsewhere. If you were not to join him, what other fate could He have in mind for you?"
Cold presentiment filled Margarita as Messire finally turned to face her, his eyes cold and unfeeling as he stared down at her. At that moment, she wished for nothing more than a robe, the vulnerability of her nakedness a discomfort now instead of arousing. She refused to feel intimidated, however, as she stared defiantly back.
"What did I say?" Messire growled, before his features softened abruptly and his voice gentled. "No woman, in all the millennia, has ever so challenged and defeated me thus. Except you, Margarita Nikolayevna."
"You think he sent me to you?" Margarita asked. "To…control you?"
"I cannot allow that," he replied, so quietly that Margarita's fury ignited even as her heart quailed. She stood suddenly, chest heaving with indignation and rage as she stared him down, uncaring now of her nakedness.
"That is all I am to you, is it not?" she spat bitterly, her fists clenched at her sides, nails biting into her skin. "Your pawn, or His. Yours to use to defeat your enemy, or his to defeat and contain you. But you are both mistaken. I am no one's pawn!"
Fury momentarily spent, Margarita turned her back on him, staring into the flames in the hearth, willing them to rise up and engulf her rather than let this pain in her heart rule her. All her life, she had been but the plaything of others and she despised it, and them. In that moment, she despised even Messire for only seeing her as such instead of what she could be.
"I wish it were not so," Messire breathed behind her, and Margarita shut her eyes.
"It is only so because you would let it," she retorted. "Even now, you play His game by His rules, trapped in a never-ending circle of defeat and destruction. But I will not."
Without warning, she was turned and gathered into his arms. He pressed his lips to hers ardently, and Margarita couldn't find the strength to push him away. But she did not passively receive his kiss, devouring his mouth passionately in her turn, arms reaching up to pull him down to her. Despite the hurt of his word and her heartsickness, she could not give up the last thing that set her so alight. God's Pawn she might have been, but she would not remain so. She would play their game her own way, and she would win. Cold resolution filled Margarita, even as she stood in her lover's embrace and kissed him as if the world would end when their lips parted. She would show them all, if given the chance. She would not let anyone, not Matthew, not the Master, not even Messire, to simply discard her and forget her as if she was nothing but a tool to be dropped once used. She would rise above them all.
Abruptly, Margarita ended the embrace, pushing back from his arms. She stood before him, breast heaving and body bare, and yet she stood taller in that moment than even he. Strong, dauntless and resolute.
Margarita could barely credit the broken, defeated, uncertain looking creature before her eyes as the same one she had met in Moscow, who had danced and tempted her so entrancingly, who had just claimed her soul and body so completely.
"Hear me now," she began, her voice no louder than a whisper but strong and steady. "I will not give up. I will set myself free from any and all machinations, both yours and His, and I will find my own way. I will stand at your side, if you will still have me there."
"I would-" he began, but Margarita spoke over him earnestly.
"Then I will prove myself. I will not let you simply take me away. I will not be a pawn, a mere passenger of destiny, anymore. I will find my own way to you and when I do, you will see I am no one's tool."
Messire's breath shuddered from his body with passion, as Margarita's head tilted proudly, as a queen pronouncing a decree before her consort. "You will try," he whispered, doubt and hope in his eyes as he regarded her. He reached a hand to caress her cheek, as he slowly faded from view like a mirage from the flames. "You will try, my queen," he whispered one last time, before he disappeared entirely.
Margarita let out a shuddering breath, her courage failing her as she was left alone once more. The house fell silent and desolate without his vibrant presence to fill it, and Margarita shivered despite the fire. In a daze, she wandered from the parlour to her bedroom, throwing a robe around herself before sliding once more into bed. The strength she'd felt only moments before had ebbed, her energy drained, and she desired nothing more than to sleep and hopefully escape all thought of what had just transpired during the past few hours.
There were no tears, Margarita had none left to give. Instead, she slept. And dreamed.
She stood in a cloud of grey nothingness, neither cold nor warm, her body bare but for the robe she had gone to sleep in. Curiously, she felt no fear as she turned slowly in a circle, looking for some sign, some idea as to what she was doing here.
She stopped, arrested, at the sight of a familiar form clad in black, fiery red hair spilling down her back in curls. Hella.
Margarita easily recalled her spiteful jealousy towards her for an attraction she had not asked for, and at first, rejected. Despite the change in her relationship with Messire, despite the hours she had spent in his arms, at mercy to his passions, Margarita still felt no fear. Hella could not harm her now.
"Greetings, Margarita Nikolayevna," the witch called as she slowly stalked closer, her every movement graceful and predatory.
"Hello to you too, Hella," Margarita replied acerbically. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Hella smirked, the terrible scar on her cheek and neck stretched grotesquely by the movement. "You do not fear me," she stated knowingly. "You think yourself safe from me. You are wrong, foolish Margot."
"Say what you have come to say, Hella, and be done with it," Margarita replied, as imperious as a queen. A spasm passed over Hella's features and she glared at the other woman.
"I have come to offer my help," she said, reluctantly. "You have set yourself on a dangerous path, and I would aid you."
"What? Me?" Margarita scoffed. "You would gladly have torn my heart out last I saw you. Why do you want to help me now?"
"As I said," Hella continued patiently. "Your road is dangerous and you are vulnerable. In the world of the living, you will be as powerless as a newborn babe and the tasks you will face require more than a human can give."
Margarita paused, considering. She hadn't thought on it, but she hadn't realised she would lose her power as a witch upon returning to the world. She should have done so, but she had been too distracted. A mistake she could not afford to make again.
"I can help you," Hella stepped forward, her expression carefully neutral. "I can teach you to regain the power that you have lost in death. I can lead you to others who will teach you more, until there will be little that can stop you."
"And what is in it for you?" Margarita asked, eying the witch warily. "What do you hope to gain by my success?"
"My freedom," Hella replied instantly, to Margarita's shock. "If I help you take your place by his side, unworthy though you are, you will set me free and release me from His service."
"How do I know I can trust you?" Margarita demanded. "How do I know this isn't some elaborate scheme to ensure I can never succeed and reach Hell?"
"You can't," Hella shrugged. "But you have little choice. You cannot leave your prison without my aid, or return to the mortal world as more than a ghost without my knowledge. So agree or refuse me, make up your mind. We have little time."
Margarita paused, torn. She did not trust the witch at all, but she had little choice. Despite her brave words, she had no idea how to leave her purgatory or whether she would even have been able to return to Earth otherwise. She needed Hella, for now.
She scrutinised her would-be teacher's face, and tried to look for any sign of malice or deception in those flawless features. There was scorn and contempt yes, as well as jealousy and dislike, but no malicious intent there, that Margarita could detect. At least, not yet anyway.
Either way, she had no choice.
"I accept your offer, Hella," she finally sighed, turning back to the witch. Hella smiled once more, regarding Margarita intently before seemingly nodding to herself.
"Sometimes, I can almost see what he sees in you," she murmured sarcastically, before turning and walking away. "Come!"
"Where are you taking me?" Margarita demanded, as she began to follow Hella through the grey mists.
"To the witches who once instructed me in the arts of magick and sorcery," Hella replied, not bothering to look around. "To those with the power to reincarnate you in a physical form. I'm taking you to the Scholomance."
Margarita had never heard of it, except in some obscure line from Bram Stoker's Dracula. "Wasn't that a school for male sorcerers taught by the Dev- by Messire himself?" she asked, recalling what little she remembered.
Hella huffed scornfully. "Typical misinformation devised by the ignorant and the prejudiced," she chuckled. "Only women are admitted there and it is not under Messire's auspices. Now, come!"
With no few misgivings, Margarita followed Hella into the mists.
To be continued in Part III: Absolution